


This Is To End In Fire (On Hiatus)

by orphan_account



Series: I See Fire [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragons, F/M, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), dragon tribes, epic dragon battles, i posted this before but here goes, im sorry only one person actually dies, revised, well one main character anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Truly, the place was named Desolation.</em> </p><p>Thorin, son of Thrain, nearly died in the Battle of the Five Armies.<br/>Fili, son of Dis, still lies unconscious.<br/>A strange affliction overcomes Bard of Laketown;<br/>And a dragon wings its way towards the camp.</p><p>The armies of Men, Elves, and Dwarves must combine once more to face a new threat rising to the East, joined by the most unexpected of allies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. O, Misty Eye of the Mountain Below...

**Author's Note:**

> So yes here we are again! This is probably a terrible idea (I have so many fics going already) but whatever, right? ;)  
> Some of you may remember this from last time. Some of you may not. Regardless, I sincerely hope you like it!

* * *

  _ **Keep careful watch of my brothers' souls**_

_**And should the sky be filled with fire and smoke** _

_**Keep watching over Durin's sons** _

**-I See Fire, Ed Sheeran**

* * *

 

The early-morning mist crawled over the bloodstained plains. Ghost-grey and noiseless, it wrapped its filmy tendrils around the bodies lying abandoned, cradling them gently as a mother might her child. The sun burst over the china-blue sky in a glorious conflagration, painting the clouds a bloody red; the mist retreated cautiously under its pitiless gaze, leaving the dead abandoned in the dust of their battle. Orcs, Elves, Men and Dwarves alike stared with unseeing eyes at the red skies, limbs bent at unnatural angles, bloodstained weapons just out of reach. Each wore the same expression, however twisted by the intricacies of their features; death is universal, and does not distinguish between races.

Once, long ago, the ground had been green and lush, until a hail of molten dragonfire fell upon the land, scorching all imitation of life to ash. Countless years later, vestiges of life dotted the ground emerald; blades of grass poked resolutely towards the sun and saplings clung to the unforgiving rocks. An army of Orcs marched into the valley, and the promising shoots were drowned in blood and carnage. Grass was smothered by stricken limbs, fledgling trees crushed by the shambling gait of trolls. Life was once more erased in the Desolation of Smaug, where the Battle of Five Armies was fought and won; though it did not feel like victory. Not when the dead outnumbered the living.

One scavenging bird fluttered down through the still air, a tattered rag entangled in the strident breeze.  It spiralled leisurely down, harsh cries echoing to the frozen waterfall below; its black eye raked over the ice, alighting upon two huddled figures. The raven wheeled away, foiled, as the little creature stirred.

Bilbo Baggins of the Shire knelt beside the King under the Mountain, entire body shaking, unable to look at the prone figure. An awful feeling smashed into him, over and over, rocking his small form until he felt that the next would shatter him. It didn’t even take the next; the feeling reached the hobbit’s throat tore itself out in the form of words. He shouted his confession at the skies, unable to stop himself.

‘I loved him!’

His fingers dug sharply into the bloodstained snow, tears falling from the end of his pointed nose.

‘I _love_ him…’

Bilbo choked on his own words and his curly head dropped, his eyes squeezed shut so he didn’t have to look at the seemingly lifeless figure beside him.

 

♛      ♛      ♛

 

The Halfling’s echoing cry drifted upon the sluggish breeze, all the way up to a little courtyard in a ruined tower. It twisted into the heart of the fiery-haired elf, piercing through the unsurmountable layers of her own pain.

She drew a sharp intake of breath, and her head snapped up, animal ferocity clouding her hazel eyes as she drew in the body before her. After a beat of calm, the wild anger drained from her eyes to be replaced with a terrible flatness as her slim fingers absently combed through the dwarf’s hair. The words her King had spoken echoed through her mind, twisting the thorns that seemed to be embedded in her heart.

_Because it was real._

Her gaze slid to the face of the youngest of Durin’s line, so pale and old in death where it had been so happy and youthful in life. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, clenching his hand in hers so hard the knuckles turned white, utterly heedless of his blood soaking her clothes. Her own words echoed back to her through the darkness twisting her mind.

_If this is love, I do not want it._

♛      ♛      ♛

 

The small group of dwarves hiked through the crumbled ruins, their dense boots crunching in the snow. Their shoulders were stooped, heavy with the weight of loss and bloodshed, but they kept going. Hope fuelled their steps, temporarily fording off the insurmountable fear that lurked in the corners of their minds.

A dwarf at the front of the Company stopped dead as he cleared the ridge. His nose hooked above a long beard as white and bloodstained as the ice beneath their feet, and his eyes reflected the desolation of the battlefield.

‘Balin,’ called one of his companions. The feigned bravado in his tone was belied by the edge of fear running underneath it, a razor beneath a strand of wool. ‘What do you see?’

But then he too cleared the ridge, and spied the pathetically small figure huddled alone on the snow; and his heavily tattooed arms fell to his sides, his craggy face twisting.

‘No,’ he murmured, the rough denial floating on the still air.

‘ _NO!’_ he roared, charging towards the broken form of the Crown Prince. He fell to his knees and skidded the last few metres, his disbelieving eyes drawn to the dark wound in the boy’s chest. His cry was echoed by the other members of the Company.

Truly, the place was named Desolation.

But still there was hope; a weak pulse surged in the neck of Fíli, son of Dis, heir to the throne of Durin; and shallow breaths still escaped the mouth of Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrόr, King Under the Mountain.

A single blade of grass poked through the dirt in the valley down below.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's the first chapter!  
> Any feedback would be super appreciated.  
> (But this was my first Hobbit fic so pls be light on me ;)


	2. Wolf Of The Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo heard their shouts from where he sat, and knew that Thorin was not mistaken.
> 
> A Dragon was coming.

* * *

**_Floating through forever_ **

**_I am stealing the energy_ **

**_Endlessly endeavour_ **

**_This is finding infinity_ **

**-The Future Is Now, Starset**

* * *

 

Scales shimmered and flashed beneath the fragile sunlight. A tail slashed through the air. Jagged teeth were bared as immense wings beat with jaw-rattling thuds. An eye, as pale as morning mist, narrowed. 

Something was coming.

 

♛      ♛      ♛

 

Waking up felt like swimming through layers and layers of the thickest corn syrup, heavy and difficult. A searing tug in his chest dragged him down, and dark murmurs resonated through the haze of his consciousness. But he battled on, because he could hear something through the liquid, a voice that strengthened his bones and returned hope to his mind. He could see light, shafting down into the shadows, and from it came the voice. As he struggled upwards, straining to break free of the darkness that held him in its grip, the voice became clearer and clearer, and he could make out words.

Suffice to say, they were not quite what he expected.

 ‘… _honestly,_ Thorin, what on Middle Earth were you thinking? Walking over his body like a complete _idiot,_ just _waiting_ to be stabbed, with your sword dangling down! Giving up after a few seconds like a fragile fauntling! You can’t expect me to save you every time, you know!’

This statement was punctuated by a disapproving sniff, then a mutter that he couldn’t make out.

Warmth was building in his chest, and a terrible burden that grew heavier with every passing heartbeat lessened; he felt his mouth twitch in amusement as he clawed through the last mental layers and became fully aware of his surroundings. Along with clarity came an insistent pain blazing through his side, erasing all semblance of thought for a moment as it crashed over him like a dragon's roar. Yet he could hear the voice still rambling on, and the pressure of a small hand holding his in a vice-like grip made itself known; it anchored him among his pain, and he found that he was able to at least mute the ache.

‘Your grip is too tight, Master Baggins,’ Thorin Oakenshield said as his eyes drifted open.

‘Oh, my  _grip is too tight,_ is it?’ answered the hobbit waspishly, seemingly unperturbed by the King of Erebor’s sudden awakening. ‘You’re the one who’s been sleeping here, all nice and cosy, while _I_ have been working hard. I’m not the one who went and got himself _stabbed,_ no, I’m the one who has to look after the idiot who did!’

This, of course, was not the way to speak to a King. But as Thorin eyed the curly haired, very irascible hobbit who was ranting on and on about _irresponsible_ this and _idiot_ that, he decided to let the matter rest.

‘I am sorry for the inconvenience I have caused you, Master Baggins…Bilbo.’

The hobbit seemed to deflate a little.

‘Just don’t do that again,’ he said quietly, his eyes flickering down to rest on the floor as he gave the dwarf’s hand a gentler squeeze.

Thorin gazed around at his surroundings, at the unfamiliar green cloth walls and swinging lantern light.

‘Where are we?’ he enquired.

‘A tent outside Erebor. The healers thought it best not to move you too far – quite right, I may add,’

Bilbo gave another disapproving sniff, this time punctuated with an eye roll. Thorin couldn’t quite hold back a small, fond smile which quickly hid as the Halfling looked back at him.

‘How goes the reconstruction of Erebor in my absence?’ Thorin asked. A slight frown creased his brow. ‘Speaking of absence…how long have I been unconscious?’

Bilbo fidgeted slightly – a small twitch of his nose, which not many would have noticed.

But Thorin noticed.

He noticed, and understood, and fear swept over him like a hunter's net seconds before the kill. Recollections drowned in mist returned to his mind, recent memories of loss and grief and _terror_.

‘What of Fíli and Kíli?’

The dwarven king stumbled over the question, wanting to know the answer with every fibre of his being, yet at the same time mortally afraid of what he would hear. His eyes fixated on the small hobbit, whose normally cheerful face was pale and drawn, the bags under his soft brown eyes deeper than usual.

‘Kíli…’

Bilbo’s whisper was barely audible.  He cleared his throat and closed his eyes briefly.

‘Kíli…was struck down by Bolg. They have waited for you to – to bury him.’

His eyes opened, and they were full of sorrow as Thorin struggled to deal with the news. Bilbo watched, an intruder to his grief, as the dwarf’s eyes glazed over and his memories of his sister-son crept from his eye and ran down into his beard. Still the King endeavoured to uphold his mask of dignity and independence, gazing straight upwards and refusing to let his true sadness show. The hobbit could see it, though. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered how he had become able to read him so well.

Bilbo allowed Thorin a long while of silent grieving, until, unable to stand it any longer, he spoke.

‘Fíli lives.’

The King’s still somewhat blank gaze met Bilbo’s desperate one.

‘Fíli…is alive?’

A spark of life returned to Thorin’s eye as the hobbit’s words fully registered. He sat up instantly.

‘I must see him!’

Bilbo pushed him down firmly, barely suppressing an eye roll. Really, he had just woken up from a coma in which he had nearly died! He had a quite literally _bloody_  hole in his chest and he was still insufferably rash.

‘No you don’t,’ the Halfling said in a steely tone that invited no argument. His voice softened slightly at the desperation in Thorin’s eyes. ‘That chest wound of yours will open up again, and it won’t do Fíli any good if you go and die, will it?’

The hobbit sighed a little as Thorin refused to relax.

‘Fíli is still unconscious. He has healers with him night and day, and _when_ he wakes you will be the first to know. I promise.’

The dwarf nodded slightly and lay back into his bed, reluctant but not so proud as to ignore reason.

‘Thank you, Master Burglar.’

Bilbo smiled, hazel eyes creasing, and the darkness lurking in the king’s mind receded somewhat as he returned the smile.

‘Now, Thorin, you had better get some rest…Thorin?’

Thorin had shot up again, to the annoyance of the hobbit.

‘Thorin, I told you, you can’t go and see-’

‘It’s not that.’

The dwarf cut him off tersely, his mind filling with a deeply ingrained fear as a familiar noise reached his ears, faint but unmistakeable.

‘ _Dragon,_ ’ he hissed.

Outside, chaos reigned over the survivors, Men and Elves and Dwarves pouring into the open, their stricken gazes fixed on the glittering shape far off in the distance. Bilbo heard their cries from where he sat, and knew that Thorin was not mistaken.

A Dragon was coming.

 

♛      ♛      ♛

 

The camp seemed small and isolated in the huge valley, a single droplet of dye drowning in dust. A clamour hung on the still air as alarm bells rang and the shouts of men sank to the earth. The sun-swept plains shimmered beneath the sky's withering blaze; the stench of sweat and fear was at home among the brassy clashing of weapons and hurried crowds. Bard Dragonslayer, future King of Dale, stood alone in the crush of panicking figures. His grey-lined hair glinted under the afternoon sun as his careworn face lined with worry. His hand shot out every now and then to grab men he recognized and issue them terse orders.

‘Araft, Bruin, take the women and children to safety. Cale, ready the archers. Torast – call the pikemen to the gathering ground, and send an emissary to the leaders.’

‘What should I tell them, sir?’

‘Tell them to meet me by the main pavilion and to signal their armies.’

The man nodded swiftly and hurried away, only a slight tremble to his hands displaying his fear.

The Bowman’s dark eyes fixed on the glittering figure spiralling above, winging in lazy circles. The corners of his mouth turned down grimly, and his grip tightened around his bow.

 _This beast will not bring the ruin and chaos of the last,_ he thought to himself.  _I will not let it._

 

♛      ♛      ♛

 

The dragon’s pale gaze surveyed the chaos below, eyeing the hundreds of figures milling around. They stampeded between rows of tents like startled sheep, bleating all the while – and the dragon was watching them like a wolf of the sky, preparing to strike.  The sun beat warmly on its magnificent scales while a cool breeze flowed around its fearsome spines. It flew with lithe grace, and its claws were long and sharp. A flicker of smugness kindled within its heart.

When it eventually grew tired of wheeling around listening to the little people’s endless squealing, and one or two arrows had thudded off its armoured scales, it decided that enough was enough and angled its wings in a steep dive.

Which, of course, led to more shrieking.

 

♛      ♛      ♛

 

The dragon’s stocky back legs slammed into the cracked plain, sending a cloud of dust mushrooming into the air. It settled onto all fours, arched up its neck, and shuffled its white wings around a bit. It disdainfully eyed the bristling ranks of weaponry; as its icy gaze swept over the warriors a visible shudder flitted through their ranks, the men's insides wriggling like worms exposed to the light.  Bard himself stood forwards and to the left of the creature, in the shade of a larger tent than most. The barrier of armed men semicircled the tent, between him and the dragon, and he felt more than a little disgusted with himself; but largely he was worried about the dragon.

‘Why does the creature not attack?’ murmured Balin, the dwarf sent in Thorin’s stead.

‘Does it matter?’ Dain growled in his thickly accented speech. ‘I say skewer it now, ask questions later!’

‘No,’ Bard interrupted firmly. ‘’Tis too difficult to slay such a beast. And its behaviour is strange – it could destroy us all in minutes, yet still it waits.’

‘Who knows the creature’s motives?’ said Thranduil slowly. The Elvenking’s hard blue stare rested upon Bard. ‘Although the _bargeman_ seems willing to bet the lives of elves on a hunch.’

The future ruler of Dale was forced to physically bite his tongue in order to repress an irritable retort. Now was not the time to become embroiled in a political dispute, though the disrespectful jab still sent his blood boiling.

_Where is that blasted wizard when you need him?_

‘I would speak to the dragon,’ Bard said shortly, unable to hide a trace of anger. ‘If it bites off my head, then you may attack, and waste as many lives as you wish.’

‘On your own head be it,’ Thranduil replied silkily.

Bard threw him a swift glare before skirting the hundred-strong guard of men, all that was left after the Battle. They muttered and rustled, watching him pass with wide eyes; eyes which were soon joined by the dragon’s great blue pair. He wondered if it was ironic that the beast’s eyes were almost the same shade as Thranduil’s.

‘What is your business here, Dragon?’ the bowman challenged, his calloused hand resting on his weapon.

The creature shuffled its wings again, surveying him balefully. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bard noted that the dragon was fractionally smaller than Smaug, lither, with a sleeker head and more streamlined body. Its scales were pure white, its horns longer and sharper.

As the silence stretched, Bard’s brows drew together and a muscle in his jaw jumped. Thoughts of the men behind him pricked like needles at his mind; of the dwarven leaders and their approaching army, of Thranduil and his, and of his family, wending their way to the gates of Erebor with the rest of the women and children. All out in plain sight. 

‘I asked, _what is your business here?’_

Bard’s shout hung on the air, fuelled by stress and tension and fear, and the dragon blinked. The bowman thought he had rather surprised it with his outburst. Despite this the silence stretched on once more; the man resigned himself to Thranduil’s scorn a second before the creature spoke.

‘I would speak with the wizard Gandalf the Grey; I bring counsel, and warning.’

Bard had started slightly at the sound of the creature’s voice. It was higher than Smaug’s, less feral, and obviously female _._ But most of all, he had not expected to hear it – perhaps for a moment he had forgotten that dragons could speak at all, that they were not merely dumb animals.

_You have nothing left but your **death**!_

Bard shook the clawing memory of that awful voice from his mind like wayward dust from chainmail, forcing his mind back to the newest threat.

‘Gandalf is not with us. He has ridden south, on business of his own.’

The white dragon regarded him for a moment, the sun flashing distractingly off its scales. The bowman caught a muted shiver sweep through the men behind him, and prayed for their courage to hold for just a few short breaths longer.

‘What of the King under the Mountain?’ the dragon asked. Bard had paused, wondering how to go about answering, before a very familiar voice spared him the trouble.

‘The King is incapacitated with many wounds from the battle, but I think I may prove a suitable replacement.'

The bowman didn’t even have it in him to be surprised as Gandalf the Grey strode up to his side, his hat low over his brow, his grey eyes a-twinkle.

‘Now,’ said he, leaning on his staff, ‘I believe you wished to speak with me?’

 

♛      ♛      ♛

 

‘I have flown for many nights and many days to bring you this news, Gandalf. Trouble is brewing in the South – an army rising, which you will not be able to defeat without aid.’

Creases appeared around the wizard’s eyes, thrown into sharp relief by the light of a swinging lantern. In that moment, he seemed to age a thousand years. Bard noticed this from his half-shadowed position behind Gandalf, as did Thranduil, from where he paced the main pavilion.

‘You knew,’ the elf accused, his smoothly ethereal tone as irksome as ever. His sleek blonde hair glowed dully in the half-light, long robes whispering along the floor as he reached the tent's wall. 

The wizard heaved a weary sigh.

‘I had my suspicions.’

Dain stirred in his seat beside Thorin. Durin’s heir had absolutely refused to ‘ _stay hidden away in my tent like a frightened rabbit while that blonde cretin decides the future of my kingdom,’_ to use his exact phrasing. Recalling the dwarf’s highly disrespectful description of Thranduil, Bard felt his mouth twitch.

‘Why did you not warn us, Gandalf?’ asked the ruler in question, a slight wince crossing his face as his hand drifted to the wound in his chest.

‘I was not entirely sure what the threat was. I merely sensed a darkness stirring to the South…’

He trailed off, casting a glance at the dragon. Or, more accurately, the dragon’s head. Being the only part of the creature that could enter the pavilion without ripping it to shreds, the white muzzle lay on the ground, the spikes at the beast’s head barely clearing the tent flap.

‘But now ye know,’ rumbled Dain, unusually subdued.

‘Indeed,’ answered Gandalf gravely. ‘An army of dragons grows within Mordor.’

Bard sucked in a soft breath, the news coming as a mace hit to his stomach. He was not the only one with such a reaction; Dain’s head snapped up in a distinctly feral manner, and Thorin growled an indistinguishable curse in the Dwarven dialect.

‘When you speak of an army…’ Thranduil trailed, his cold eyes dark. Gandalf nodded grimly.

‘Sauron has amassed a battalion of over thirty score,’ said the dragon. ‘He has been planning this for longer than most would believe.’

It seemed to Bard that a frigid wind hissed through the tent, the temperature dropping with the news. Absently he rubbed at the gooseflesh beneath his sleeve.

‘How is such a feat possible?’ he asked disbelievingly. ‘It has been centuries since the last sighting of one creature, and you tell us that Sauron has hundreds?’

‘He has his own methods of acquiring such creatures,’ replied Gandalf. ‘Capture and extortion not the least of which. But his most effective is his insurance; whenever one dragon dies, another comes to be.’

‘What are you saying?’ Dain growled, impatience spilling out of his every pore and culminating in the ringed fingers which gripped his axe. Swiftly the dragon shifted to reply, Bard guessed before Gandalf could spout another roundabout riddle. Despite himself he found that he appreciated its initiative.

‘Sauron placed a curse upon his dragons,’ it said, alien features unreadable as it watched the dwarf. Bard felt something like a noose closing about his throat and choking his breath; for only seconds did he wonder at his own fear, before the dragon answered it.

'He made it so that any who slay a cursed dragon transform into one themselves.’

Innumerable fathoms below the unbroken surface of the Long Lake, the few diamond threads of moonlight which had battled through the ink of the water glittered on the brimstone of Smaug’s scales.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABOUT DAMN TIME
> 
> feedback welcome as ever! :)


	3. Once Mortal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elf drew himself up, his icy eyes sweeping condescendingly over the room.
> 
> ‘Very well. If none of you will aid me, I shall simply do it alone. I will not allow my people to burn in the flames of dragonfire.’
> 
> He made to sweep out of the tent, but halted abruptly as the massive white dragon’s head filled his vision. As any living creature should learn, it is never wise to forget about a live dragon in your presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has commented/kudos'd/subscribed! I am truly blown away by the reaction to this fic, and it is extremely encouraging to see your reaction to it. I'm actually on holiday at the moment, so updates will be a little patchy, but hopefully I'll be able to set a date when I get home.
> 
> I sincerely hope you enjoy!

* * *

**_I'll be the watcher of the eternal flame_ **

  
**_I'll be the guard dog of all your fevered dreams_**

  
**_I am the sand in the bottom half of the hourglass_**

  
_**I try to picture me without you but I can't**  
_

**-Immortals, Fall Out Boy**

* * *

Fíli was a prisoner within his own body.

His mind was awake, if a little hazy; he could hear, think and feel almost as if he was conscious. He could feel the soft down beneath his back and hear the muffled murmurs of the people outside, and wonder at their words. He could feel the soothing warmth play across his face from a lantern nearby and listen to a thrush chirping as it flitted through the sky above. But he could not move. He could not twitch his finger, or shift his head. He was unable to even open his eyes. His body had rebelled against him, refusing to listen to even the most basic commands. Pain, though, he could feel; from every itch of barest discomfort to the raging molten agony searing through his chest like dragonfire. He lay alone, only able to see darkness, unable to make a single noise.

There was nothing he could do but wait.

 

♛      ♛      ♛

 

‘…any who slay a cursed dragon transform into one themselves.’

Bard’s expression of slight confusion completely belied his inner shock. _Shock_ had never been a more accurate term for what he felt – his mind was simultaneously reeling and blank as though he had been struck by lightning.

When he finally managed to string together a coherent thought, he spoke.

‘You’re saying that I will…become a dragon?’

His features bore an odd mix of confusion, disbelief and anger. Anger that even after death, that blasted worm Smaug was still placing Middle Earth in danger’s path.

‘I don’t believe it,’ muttered Dain. He cast a distrustful look at the white head of the dragon from beneath his bushy eyebrows. In return the creature hissed impatiently, and its shimmering voice was coloured with ire.

‘Whether you believe it or not is immaterial, dwarf. It will happen, and naught can be done to stop it.’

Gandalf was staring at the floor, obviously deep in thought.  Bard looked grim as ever three paces to his right; Thorin and Dain were seated by the cloth wall to the dragon’s left. Thranduil’s back was turned on the rest of the room. His hands were clasped behind him and his expression was effectively hidden as he faced the wall opposite to the dwarves. The tent was cast into shadow, aside for the lantern light fracturing off the dragon’s white scales.

Thorin leaned forwards where he sat, his long black hair falling over his shoulder. He was wearing a simple rough shirt, the bandages hidden beneath it adding bulk to his chest.

‘How do you know of the curse?’ the dwarven king queried, his deep voice stable. He, at least, seemed to take the news in his stride.

‘I know of the spell because I experienced it,’ the creature replied. ‘I was not born a dragon.’

Bard’s dark eyebrows furrowed, almost of their own accord.

‘You once were mortal,’ he said, again not entirely meaning to.

‘Aye, many thousands of years ago.’

The Elvenking shifted slightly, and before he turned back around Bard thought he caught a glimpse of blue eyes darkened with desire. A familiar tingle pushed at the back of Bard’s mind with warning fingers as the elf spoke.

‘And how did this…transformation…occur?’

Thranduil’s voice was his usual smooth lilt, condescending as always. The bowman wondered at what he had seen, but before he could decide the truth there came a noise from outside like an avalanche of coins. After a beat of confusion, Bard realised that the dragon had shuffled its wings.

‘It was a short process, swift but powerful. I was in my people’s celebratory halls, eleven suns after I slayed the dragon Askor. In the midst of the feast, a white flash lit up the room. My people fled, but I could not. The transformation…’ the dragon paused, and a scraping sound came from outside like a blade against a grinder – or an armoured tail across stone. ‘It was _disconcerting_ , to say the least. Even now, with three thousand years passed, I remember every second of it.’

The Man was the only one to catch the trace of unease in Gandalf’s expression before it vanished.

‘I gather it was not pleasant, then,’ said Thorin drily. The dragon tilted its massive head in acquiescence, sending a stab of apprehension through Bard’s body; reality was sinking in, and already he feared the times ahead.

‘Long have I wondered how you came to be in Mordor,’ spoke the wizard. Gandalf had broken out of his thoughts to speak for the first time in a long while. His head was raised, his grey hair shining in the lantern light: his hat was beneath his chair. The bags under his eyes looked deeper than ever, yet the spark in his grey eyes spoke of a new drive. As the dragon paused before replying, Bard heard the coin-avalanche noise once more.

‘Sauron managed to…capture me.’

‘He captured _you_?’ Dain asked, his accent thickening in disbelief. ‘A full-sized dragon?’

The creature sniffed and regarded the dwarf haughtily.

‘How did he do it?’ the ruler of the Iron Hills perused, leaning forwards in his seat. He seemed almost excited, and Bard suspected that the dragon would not take it well.

A low growl rumbled deep in the beast’s throat, shaking the ground ever so slightly and proving him right.

‘You forget the nature of dragons,’ it hissed. Its shimmering voice was lower, rougher, primordial, and there was something about it – a razor edge, running under its words – that reminded all present exactly what they were speaking to. Dain leaned back a little, subdued; Thorin’s eyes narrowed, and Thranduil’s head turned slightly. The dragon paused for a moment, its eyes closing briefly, and when it next spoke the threatening undertone was gone.

‘As soon as I turned, I could feel the desire to slay all before me. Fire burned in my throat, and greed in my heart.  Dragons are, at their core, creatures of evil: they desire death and carnage, but even more so they crave precious gems. In fact, the curse itself is similar to the dragon sickness. Even now it is difficult to contain the dragon’s spirit – and at that time, I was young and inexperienced. When I sensed a hoard of silver I went to it without a moment of thought.’

‘And it was a trap.’

Thorin’s steely eyes were dark as he spoke, his voice detached. The Man knew that he was relieving his personal battle with dragon sickness, and Bard himself recalled the illness; the haze which descended over the dwarf’s eyes, the complete change in his orders, the twisting and warping of his personality until he became someone else – some _thing_ else.  Remembering this, he realised that the dragon would experience the same madness every day, perhaps to an even greater degree. As he glanced at the creature, for the first time he wondered at her story.

‘It was. The Orcs where too numerous to subdue; they poured water on me and drowned out my fire. Then I was taken to Mordor, where I was chained and kennelled like a _dog_.’

A snarl briefly lifted up the dragon’s top lip, exposing her swordlike incisors.

‘I was assigned to a rider – the Pale Orc.’

Thorin growled his name audibly, his hand pressing against the wound the Orc had given him. She noticed, and tilted her head.

‘Yes. Azog was to be my owner. The Pale Dragon for the Pale Orc, so went their reasoning. Sauron cast his curses on me…or tried to. For reasons I do not know, the thrall did not take hold. So as soon as I could I left, to seek Gandalf the Grey.’

The wizard nodded and gave her a knowing smile. Something seemed to pass silently between them, and Bard suspected that they knew each other. How, he was not certain.

As the silence stretched unbroken, the bowman caught the soft chirruping of crickets outside, the rustle of a light breeze, and the occasional muted footsteps as the night guard did his rounds. That and the weight on Bard’s eyelids made him realise how truly late the hour was. A tribute to his exhaustion, his thoughts wandered to his kin – they would have reached Erebor by now, he was sure. Perhaps it was better for them to be far away from him; as it was, it would not overly affect them when he turned. Three suns – or four, depending on the lateness of the hour – had risen since Smaug had fallen. If the white dragon was to be believed, he had roughly seven days of humanity left to him.

‘You mentioned that eleven sunrises passed between the slaying of the beast and your transformation,’ Thranduil said slowly.

Bard was stunned by the unexpectedness of what the Elvenking said; he was stunned that the elf had spoken at all after such a long silence, and the manner in which it mirrored the bowman’s own inner thoughts. His surprise was instantly followed by suspicion – Thranduil rarely said anything without some veiled cause. He saw his misgivings echoed in the features of the other tent occupants, and distinctly caught Thorin and Dain exchange looks equally apprehensive and irritated.

‘Yes, I did,’ the dragon acknowledged carefully, her slitted eye exhibiting her own suspicion of ulterior motives. Gandalf, meanwhile, was studying Thranduil with a clear warning in his grey eyes. The Elvenking’s back was turned on the rest of the assembly, his pale hair sheeting down his shoulders, his elaborate crown spiking into the air.

‘I believe there is a very obvious and advantageous solution to our predicament,’ the king continued. ‘One which would only serve to preserve each of our peoples’ safety.’

‘What are you getting at, elf?’ Thorin growled, echoed by a ‘ _go on, spit it out’_ from Dain. Turning his head, Thranduil exposed his haughty profile. His face was unreadable.

‘If we captured a number of these creatures, using the stronghold of Erebor, and our armies deposed every last one of them, we would have our own host of dragons to use at will.’ He turned completely to face the tent at large, and his mask was slipping, the eagerness and hunger in his eyes beginning to shine through. ‘We would command a force with the strength and power of beasts, yet the minds of men – certain am I of my elves’ ability to resist the sickness.’

There was a beat of silence as the others' minds caught up with the Elvenking’s words. Bard broke the pause, his voice low and dangerous.

‘Are you mad?’

‘That he is, to think us fool enough to go along with this plan,’ Thorin snarled, his expression thunderous. ‘He means to build himself an invulnerable army, and increase the standing of elves in Middle Earth as he does so!’

‘Do not be so hasty,’ Thranduil replied, the ugly colour of anger poisoning his tone. ‘I mean only to bring peace and protection to our lands.’

Dain snorted violently.

‘Peace and protection, my axe! The _calass_ thinks only of his own cowardly neck.’

Thranduil’s expression stiffened, his face twisting into something not entirely sane.

‘Do not speak to me of cowardice,’ the elf hissed. ‘ _You_ are the cowards, to know of a dragon army approaching and not be willing to do what is needed!’

‘ _Rukhsul menu!’_ Thorin snarled. ‘Dain is right. You speak not of what is needed, but of what is wanted to achieve your own selfish desires.’

‘Selfish!’ Thranduil exclaimed, his eyes glowing with contempt. ‘You dare call me selfish? You have more experience than I in that _particular_ area, Thorin son of Thráin! It was not I who kept the riches of Erebor from those who needed it.’

‘Do not bring up righted wrongs, Thranduil,’ Bard warned. ‘Thorin has long since repaid his debt to us.’

‘ _Bundul menu denapdul_ , Bard of Dale,’ said Dain, fingering the hilt of his axe. ‘Though I’m not sure there was ever a debt owed to the elven coward.’

‘That is enough!’ Gandalf cut in. His pointed eyebrows drew together as his gaze fell upon the Elvenking, his grey eyes narrowed above his downturned mouth. ‘Your mind is clouded, Thranduil son of Oropher, by fear for your people. Do not let this dread influence your decisions.’

The elf drew himself up, his icy eyes sweeping condescendingly over the room.

‘Very well. If none of you will aid me, I shall simply do it alone. _I_ will not allow my people to burn in the flames of dragonfire.’

He made to sweep out of the tent, but halted abruptly as the massive white dragon’s head filled his vision. As any living creature should learn, it is never wise to forget about a live dragon in your presence.

A growl rumbled past the gleaming fangs hanging in front of Thranduil, this one exponentially louder and longer than the last, menacing, with an edge to it reminiscent of the shaking of a rattlesnake’s tail. When the sound eventually died, the dragon twisted her sinuous neck to bore her eye into the elf’s.

‘Have you considered what you are suggesting?’ the dragon snarled, her upper lip rising. To his credit, Thranduil did not cower, or tremble; but his eyes widened fractionally as she continued. ‘Have you experienced the agony which comes with the transformation, every second of every day? Do you realise how easy it would be for me to slip up and raze this entire camp, along with every soul inside? Have you so swiftly forgotten that the last dragon destroyed two kingdoms and a town before it was subdued?’

Holding the elf’s frozen gaze for a long moment, the anger in the dragon’s tone abated as she retracted her head to its original position.

‘I would not wish this fate on any. Your idea is as absurd as it is insufferable, and I would advise you to forget it.’

The Elvenking stood motionless in the centre of the massive pavilion. Gandalf was more wrapped himself in intense contemplation, his eyes fixed upon the dust between his feet. The two dwarf lords also seemed deep in thought, so it fell to Bard to address the Oliphaunt in the room, as it were.

‘What, then?’ he asked, his gaze darting to the wizard. ‘What can we do?’

The wizard hummed thoughtfully but did not raise his head. His elbows rested on his knees and his grey robes pooled to the floor like quicksilver.

‘Contact the Vallhyrin,’ the dragon said suddenly. Gandalf looked up swiftly and leaned forwards in his earnestness.

‘No. We cannot. The risk-’

‘Is worth what it could achieve. Gandalf, we cannot just do nothing.’

Bard’s eyes darted between the two, a slight frown creasing his face.

‘What is the Vallhyrin?’ Thorin asked.

‘I don’t like it. Sounds too _elvish_ to me,’ Dain muttered, with a nasty glare at Thranduil. Thorin smirked.

‘They are a tribe of skin changers who live across the Northern Wastes, within the mountain range of Ered Imwyn,’ the dragon answered, ignoring the dwarf’s comment.

‘Skin changers.’ The King under the Mountain arched a dark eyebrow. Shadows slid across his features as he leaned forwards, directing his next words at Gandalf. ‘I was led to believe that Beorn was the last.’

In return the wizard pursed his wizened lips pensively, not missing the unsubtle hint of suspicion in the dwarf’s tone.

‘He _is_ the last, of his clan. His tribe had the power to become great bears. The Vallhyrin, however…’

‘Let me guess,’ Thorin said sarcastically. ‘They turn into _dragons.’_

‘In fact…’

‘You cannot be serious.’

Bard cursed under his breath.

‘Just what we needed,’ Dain grumbled, echoing his thoughts. ‘Even _more_ dragons.’

‘Why did you not mention this earlier?’

Thranduil seemed to have regained the use of his vocal chords, if his tone of cool detachment was any indication.

‘The Vallhyrin’s alliances are doubtful, to say the least; and their exact whereabouts is not widely known.’ The dragon paused, seeming to consider her next words carefully. ‘We also have a rather rocky history.’

Bard distinctly heard Gandalf quietly chuckle into his beard and mutter the words _‘rocky history.’_ Thisin turn earned the wizard a rather frosty glare from the dragon, who seemed to possess supernatural hearing ability.

‘How long would it take you to fly there?’ Thorin asked her, his gaze boring into her from under his dark eyebrows. The coin-avalanche noise sounded, but this time it was pensive instead of uncomfortable.

‘No less than two fortnights, discounting the time taken to find the tribe in the first place. But it would not be suitable for me to go – the Vallhyrin would just as soon tear my head off as look at it.’ She paused for a moment, her eyes narrowed. ‘Midgets they may be, but there are many of them.’

‘So someone else would have to go to them,’ Dain said in his thickly accented speech.

‘No more than four, and no less than two,’ the wizard advised.

‘Four?’ the dragon broke in. ‘Gandalf, I cannot carry that many in such a short time.’

‘I thought you could not go,’ Thorin said. The white dragon’s attention switched to him.

‘I cannot enter their territory, but I can carry two to Ered Mithrim at least. _Two_ ,’ she said pointedly. ‘No more.’

Bard’s attention was on Gandalf and he noticed the way his eyes flicked to rest on him, just for a heartbeat. It was still enough to plant suspicion in his – and evidently the dragon’s – mind.

‘He will not be ready. It is more difficult than you realise to adjust,’ she warned.

Bard realised with a jolt that her words had been about him. He had been trying to repress thoughts about his approaching transformation, but thoughts of his body and mind twisting into a new shape crept back up on him at her words.

‘Very well. We shall send only two, then,’ said the wizard. Bard shook himself roughly out of his thoughts and focused on the matter at hand; this meeting could affect the future of his people, and his people came before any selfish worries of his own.

The dragon regarded Gandalf suspiciously, perhaps thinking he had not completely let the matter go. Bard privately agreed with the sentiment.

‘Which raises the matter of who to send,’ Dain rumbled. ‘Two hardy dwarves should do it.’

‘No,’ Bard said immediately. ‘We need someone with stealth and subtlety.’

‘Both qualities which dwarves hold in short supply,’ Gandalf agreed, his eyes twinkling approvingly. He looked up at the dwarven lords from under his raised eyebrows, effectively quashing their half-formed protests.

‘Send the Halfling,’ the Elvenking stated smoothly. ‘He encountered no hardship sneaking about my kingdom undetected.’

Gandalf’s face darkened. Even Bard felt a hot flash of anger at the shameless slight against the kind hobbit, but before either of them could react Thorin beat them to it.

The dwarf shot up. ‘ _Menu rukhs shirumundu!_ ’ he snarled with such violence that even Bard, who knew not a word of Khuzdûl, could tell that it was a terrible insult.

‘How _dare_ you,’ the dwarf growled, his furious gaze burning a hole into Thranduil’s vaguely smug features. ‘I would never let him go. Never.’

‘Really?’ Thranduil raised a thick eyebrow, and Bard felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Nothing good was to come of this, of that he was certain.

‘Why, that _is_ a change of tone,’ the Elvenking said in a tone of feigned surprise. ‘You encountered no such issues using him as your shield during the battle-’

Thorin launched himself at the elf with a roar, but Dain caught him about the waist before he could do anything.

‘Calm down, _sammun_ ,’ the stocky dwarf grunted, his arms full of struggling Dwarven King. Bard quickly stepped between Thorin and the elf.

‘Do not do anything hasty, Thorin,’ he said swiftly, his dark eyes intense upon the berserk dwarf. ‘Bilbo would not want you getting hurt because of him.’

Slowly, the king’s struggled ceased, and he pushed away Dain’s helping hand.

‘I’m fine,’ he grunted, dropping back into his chair.

‘You are most certainly not, you fool of a dwarf!’ Gandalf exclaimed. ‘We only let you in here with the promise that you would be _sensible!’_

Thorin glanced down, for the first time noticing the flower of blood spreading across his shirt. He sighed. Bard could have sworn he heard him say _‘Bilbo is going to kill me,’_ but he must have been mistaken. Thorin Oakenshield, King Under The Mountain, did not mutter about the violent tendencies of Halflings.

The dragon shifted, her great eye travelling over the bloodstained dwarf where he slumped in his chair and his dishevelled cousin where he fingered his axe.

‘I believe that concludes our meeting,’ she observed drily.

 

♛      ♛      ♛

 

The massive roiling pit of magma seemed to reflect into the sky, where a disc of orange swam within a swirling mass of stormclouds. A third fiery light darted across the chapped plains of stone below, sliding from pitch-black spurs of stone to hulking watchtowers to the impossibly steep sides of the massive volcano.

Mordor was laid bare beneath the watchful eye of the Dark Lord Sauron that night.

Ten thousand metres below Mount Doom’s shrouded peak, an imaginably massive cavern stretched for miles upon miles. Its inky blackness was lit only by strands of rough torches thrust into the ground, burning angrily into the dark, and the jagged patches of light thrown by the hundreds of dragons contained within. Roaring, thrashing, chained with iron shackles and bound to the stone, the din of their confinement was deafening; most had torn the stained leather muzzles binding their armoured snouts, snapping at one another like piranhas.

One pale orc strode through their ranks. He completely disregarding a red dragon whose incisors came inches from his deformed arm, milky eyes remaining fixed ahead. His brutish face twisted into a gross facsimile of a smile as he strode to meet a smaller orc.

‘How goes the preparation?’ asked he, sharklike teeth grating around the jagged syllables of Black Speech. Half-bowed in fearful respect, the smaller orc peered up with dull crimson eyes.

‘Well, my lord,’ he rasped. ‘Only three worms remain beyond our master’s grasp.’

‘And the deserter?’

‘It has reached the enemy camp, my lord.’

‘Kill it,’ the taller ordered. ‘Send our best fighters and raze the camp to the ground. I want none left alive.’

‘But my lord, the plan–’

‘I do not care for plans!’ he roared, sending the smaller cowering into the stone. ‘Send them – now!’

The smaller gave one final bow before scuttling away as swiftly as he could. Seconds later the awful thunder of war drums resonated through the cavern, shaking the stone and sending the dragons into a frenzy. Far above, magma roared into the sky, slamming into the inky cloud.

Azog the Defiler bared his teeth in a grotesque leer as dragonfire raged around him.

‘Durin’s spawn,’ said he. ‘ _I_ _come for you_.’

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul Translations  
> calass: thief, miscreant, untrustworthy one  
> rukhsul menu: (roughly) you orc  
> bundul menu denapdul: you speak the truth/your words are truth  
> menu rukhs shirumundu: you beardless orc  
> sammun: brother
> 
> N.B: The Vallhyrin, Ered Imwyn, the dragon-curse, Sauron's dragon army, and of course Mirasma are all complete fiction and not at all canon. You have most likely guessed this already, but I thought I'd let you know.
> 
> Comments are, as always, extremely appreciated, and motivate me to continue. Feedback on Mirasma would be incredibly useful, as it is always daunting inserting your own character into a story!


	4. Of Kept Secrets and Born Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smooth beneath his rough skin, the pitch-black labradorite glinted as Thorin Oakenshield ran it beneath his fingers. Indescribably silky, the only flaw in the oval stone was the inscribed Khuzdûl; softly Thorin traced over the spiky runes with his thumb. 
> 
> Inikh dê, they read. Return to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from my holiday, so I think I will get my act together and set the posting date for every Sunday. Hope you like this newest chapter. 
> 
> A forewarning: there are many mysterious hints and allusions.

* * *

**_Things we lost to the flames_ **

**_Things we'll never see again_ **

**_All that we've amassed_ **

**_Sits before us, shattered into  ash_ **

**-Things We Lost In The Fire, Bastille**

* * *

 

 

_Memory is the treasure of the mind._

Fíli recalled that ancient dwarven proverb as he lay suspended between waking and unconsciousness, running it like age-old thread through his rough fingers. The memory of Thorin repeating it to Kíli and he when they were dwarflings was misty in the darkness; just barely could he see the creases which appear around his Uncle’s eyes as he laughs, and little Kíli tugging on his dark braids when he leans in. Fíli remembered Thorin’s favourite proverb, and confined alone as he was with memories and worries and fears, he only wished that the treasure could be taken from him.

Only vague recollections of the battle remained his: Thorin striding into the entrance hall with clear eyes and simple clothes, a King once more; tearing down the wall, and charging into the chaos; scaling the snow-covered Ravenhill with Dwalin, his Uncle and his brother, sword in hand; Bilbo appearing from nowhere and warning them of an ambush; then nothing. He had some scattered ghosts of emotions, but not nearly enough to tell the fate of his kin, and it weighed on his mind with a heavy blackness. His one reassurance was the outcome of the battle – he doubted that Orcs would lay him on an infirmary bed and wait for his recovery. The molten pain in his chest spoke of a near-fatal wound, and he thought he might be in a tent, because of the little rustlings that he heard whenever she entered. He did not know who she was. He hadn’t even known she _was_ a ‘she’, at first. At first she had merely been a careful pair of hands changing his bandages every now and then, or pressing against his forehead to check his temperature. Her movements were soft, but her skin was calloused; Fíli had known even then that she was no stranger to labour. He had looked forwards to her visits just as he listened keenly to every conversation he could hear – they were simply something,in the nothing.

One day she had stayed a little longer. Her footsteps had hesitated as she made her way out, and after a beat of silence Fíli heard her step back to his side. Then she had spoken.

‘You will wake soon,’ she had said, and he’d felt the soft brush of fingers against his. ‘I know it.’

Then she left, and Fíli almost felt light again.

 

♛      ♛      ♛

                                                                                

After a long, cold night, the daybreak brought glimmers of warmth. The dark sky began to lighten, a blanket of clouds becoming visible as night blurred into day.

Bard emerged from his tent just in time to see the sun burst over the mountains in a blaze of light and gild the clouds with a lining of silken copper. Warm ribbons of sunlight spilled across the plains, throwing every stone’s shadow into sharp relief, washing over the dust and transforming it to amber, banishing the early morning mist and bathing the snowcapped mountains in molten flames. Suddenly put off the sight, Bard turned to sweep his eyes over the camp. He had never been one for gawking at sunrises in any event, regardless of how pretty they were.

Arranged in rows of two by ten, the tents stood like coloured lanterns in the half-light; Bard’s mood darkened a little at how careworn and shabby they appeared. Being precise, the Men’swere careworn and shabby; the elven armies had arrived in the night, and their tents were as elegantly flawless as the day they were woven. Dain was also expecting the remainder of his forces to arrive in a day or two, though what help dwarves would be against dragons Bard honestly was not sure.

The future King of Dale wound his way through the rows of tents, his boots sending up miniature puffs of dust each time they encountered the cracked ground. The majority of the tents he passed were silent, but in some he caught soft murmurs and once or twice he encountered a rogue elf that had strayed from the Elven end of the camp.

Stopping at the mouth of a tent more richly decorated than most, Bard considered entering and paying his respects to the dwarven prince – _Fíli_ , he remembered.  Abruptly startled out of his thoughts, he watched as the tent flap opened. With a rustle of fabric a woman with curling brown hair and grey eyes slipped outside.

‘Sigrid?’ Bard asked, astonished.

His oldest daughter stopped dead. She clutched tighter the bundle of medicine in her arms as if she was afraid he was going to snatch them from her.

‘D-Da? What are you doing here?’

‘What are _you_ doing here? Why are you not in Erebor?’

The crease between Bard’s eyes deepened, not with anger but confusion. Sigrid thought she could see a hint of hurt in his eyes, and it broke through her surprise.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, her eyes flickering down; yet the words were not enough for her, and neither, she felt, would they satisfy her father. She gathered her resolve and raised her chin.

‘I could not simply leave like a coward while you are here, in danger. People say there is an army coming, Da, and I’ve seen the white dragon.’

Bard studied her at length. The more he saw, the more he realised; he did not see his young daughter before him any longer. In her place he saw a strong woman, maturing into adulthood. She was ready to become the leader she always had to be.

Sigrid was surprised, to say the least, when her father pulled her into his arms. Not that he had never done so before, but the circumstances were a little…different. With her face pressed into his hunting jacket, his smell of woodsmoke and cinnamon surrounding her, she felt like a child again.

‘You’ve grown,’ he murmured. Sigrid’s throat tightened, as it did whenever he spoke so. She knew it was silly, but the words never failed to remind her of the lines on her father’s face and the grey in his hair.

‘I’m still the same, Da,’ she whispered.

Bard drew back and studied her. His face was serious, but his voice was soft as he spoke.

‘Do not be afraid of change, Sigrid. It is the way of the world. And you, my daughter, have changed into a wonderful woman, of whom I could not be more proud.’

The skin around his eyes creased as he smiled. Sigrid sniffed and laughed at the same time, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm.

‘I love you, Da.’

‘I love you too.’

Sigrid smiled, then her expression moulded into disapproval as she noticed the scruffy beginnings of a beard on her father’s jaw.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I will need to give you a shave sometime soon, else people will begin mistaking you for a dwarf.’

Bard grinned and rubbed a hand along the stubble. ‘I’m too tall to be a dwarf, Sigrid.’

She shook her head in exasperation. ‘You should not be so rude about our allies, Da.’

‘Spoken like a true princess,’ her father said. Sigrid laughed and hugged her bundle of medicine tighter, feeling more carefree than she had in a long while. Bard noticed the bundle for the first time, his eyes flickering to the tent behind her as he put two and two together.

‘How fares the prince?’

‘He still sleeps, but he will wake soon. I am sure of it.’

Bard was more than a little surprised at the confidence in her tone, but not unpleasantly. It was good for her to have faith in her own skills.

‘What of Bain and Tilda?’ he asked.

‘I left them with Farill – you remember her, the baker’s wife.’

The man nodded, impressed with Sigrid’s foresight. His daughter was certainly full of surprises this morning. The thought of surprises swiftly turned his thoughts on a different, darker path, and his good mood disappeared like mist in the morning sun when he remembered what was coming, both to the camp and to him.

‘Sigrid,’ he began. ‘There is something which you must know.’

The girl’s smile dipped a little as she recognised his serious tone.

‘What is it?’

Bard’s thoughts were abruptly scattered by a hesitant shuffle from behind him. He turned from his daughter’s anxious expression to see a young man he vaguely recognized as one of Sigrid’s old friends.

‘The other leaders are asking for you, Sire,’ he said. ‘They wait on the Ravenhill.’

 He noticed the girl over her father’s shoulder.

‘Morning, Sigrid,’ he beamed.

‘Morning, Jared,’ she replied absently, her gaze fixed on Bard. ‘You will tell me later, will you not?’

A small smile creased his lips, never reaching his eyes.

‘Of course.’

Her gaze remained fixed in his direction long after he disappeared from her sight.

 

♛      ♛      ♛

 

The dragon shuffled her wings uncomfortably. It – the shuffling – had become a nervous tick of hers. She had to get rid of it immediately.

_Nervous ticks can get you killed._

The ingrained memory of a clear voice echoed through her mind, and she squashed it impatiently. It would never be said that Mirasma Iceyes was a daydreamer. Instead she stared out across the panoramic view in front of her, closing her fourth outer eyelid against the dust-laden wind. The sun, after its stunningly useless rise, had decided to hide behind the thick layer of clouds like a stubborn hatchling, leaving the plains dismal and the mountains shadowed.

Her gaze zeroed in on a rabbit hopping its errant way across the plains mere miles past the camp below. It was actually fairly well disguised, she reflected, a dull dusty brown against the dull dusty brown. It was certainly more camouflaged than her – honestly, _white scales?_ The only place she could possibly blend in was a bank of clouds or perhaps a snowy wasteland. Anywhere else, she was obvious as a missing tooth.

The rabbit might even have been able to evade the attention of an eagle.

_An eagle, perhaps, s_ he thought smugly, _yet not a dragon._

Her acute hearing instantly picked up on the slight shifting sounds of someone climbing the stairs behind her. The footsteps were accompanied by a slight thudding on every second step, so she was not at all taken aback when Gandalf’s voice reached her ears.

‘Mirasma, my dear friend,’ he said, his grey eyes bright. ‘Whatever are you doing hidden away like a shadow from the sun?’

‘I am not hiding,’ she sniffed.

Gandalf came to stand beside her, joining his friend atop the crumbling watchtower perched on Ravenhill. They made an odd sight, the old man clad in grey robes and the immense white dragon together upon the windblasted stone.

‘I was simply…watching.’

She knew that Gandalf would understand. He had walked the land for millennia upon millennia, whether it be Middle Earth or another.

‘It is quite a view,’ the wizard murmured, leaning on his staff. He gazed out across the broad tableau, while the dragon watched him, amused; the air had become oddly still around them as soon as he had reached the top of the stairs, and Mirasma suspected magical fiddling. Gandalf chuckled as if sensing her thoughts. With any other he might have done, but magic of her own ensured immunity from his probing.

They remained in companionable silence for a long while, until the wizard spoke.

‘I had a thought.’

Mirasma glanced at her old friend, waiting. When he did not speak, she felt a little irritated – she was almost four and a half thousand years old, yet still he insisted upon treating her like some hatchling. In comparison to his age, so might she be, yet still it irked her like dry scales.

‘Go on,’ she said, barely managing to hold back her considerable temper. She was not exactly one for subtlety, but knew from experience that Gandalf would merely derive amusement from her irritation.

‘The dragon inside you,’ he began, meeting her gaze. ‘It is almost like a whole personality.’

It was a statement, not a question, but Mirasma inclined her head.

‘It was, at first. It whispered thoughts to me, of anger and arrogance and greed, but now it is silent. I presume you know why.’

Again, it was not a question.

‘Yes, I have a theory.’

He paused again and Mirasma barely managed to restrain an impatient snarl.

‘And?’ she asked, forcing her tone into politeness. Agh, all of this pretending was giving her a headache.

Gandalf shot her an amused look, once more seeming to sense her thoughts.

‘I believe that the disappearance of the voice, and your – or so I assumed – slight change in personality–’ he glanced at her, as if seeking confirmation, and she nodded once more– ‘may indicate that you have, for wont of a better term, _merged_ with the dragon.’

Mirasma felt her reptilian face move in what would have been a frown in her mortal body. Nigh on four and a half millennia had passed, and yet the habit still remained.

‘What are you getting at, Gandalf?’

‘Well, if your souls are merged, and you are in control of both of them, who is to say that you are not also in control of your physical form?’

‘You think I might be able to Skin-Change,’ the dragon said. It was an intriguing thought… _but impossible_ , Mirasma reminded herself fiercely.

‘It will not work,’ she said bluntly.

‘There is no harm in trying,’ said Gandalf meaningfully, looking up at her under his raised eyebrows. Gods above, she hated it when he did that. Did she mention that the wizard was insufferably patronising?

‘You think that if _they_ can, I can also.’

As the wizard remained silent, waiting for her to reach her point, the dragon’s thoughts drifted to the north; to Ered Imwyn her memory flew, and entered the great halls of Tephra. She had known her well, aye, and couldn’t deny that sometimes…

She found herself having to shake out of her thoughts for the second time that day. Eru’s beard! Was she becoming _sentimental?_

‘You are wrong, Gandalf. I am nothing like them.’

‘Perhaps,’ he acknowledged. Mirasma, in turn, was far from fooled; she knew that he was merely humouring her. Silence reigned once more, and together they stared out across the horizon. The immense plains spread into the distance, on and on and on, broken only by the Long Lake; then Mirasma’s sharp eyes could barely discern the dark line of the once-Greenwood. If she turned to the right and strained her vision, she would be able to make out the River Anduin on the other side of the woods, but that was a waste of time and energy.

‘Are you going to tell them?’

‘No.’

Mirasma was not at all surprised by Gandalf’s question – in fact, she had been expecting him to ask earlier.

‘You would keep it from them?’

‘It is not their business.’

‘It may affect the quest,’ the wizard warned. 'They could misunderstand.'

‘My history is my concern, and my concern only.’

The wizard sighed at the stubbornness in his old friend’s tone. He liked and valued the dragon, but her habit of ‘holding back the truth’, also known as lying, often grated on him. For the sake of their friendship, he still usually respected her wishes. This time, however…

‘The bowman turns in six sunrises,’ Mirasma said, breaking the wizard from his reverie.

‘What was that? Oh, yes, I suppose he does…’ Gandalf subsided into worried grumbling. After a moment, the dragon posed another question.

‘Is he strong?’

‘He is indeed. He managed to slay Smaug, you know, but that is not all. He is very strong, yes, yes he is...’

And he trailed off into muttering once more. Mirasma refrained from rolling her eyes with great difficulty, and turned her attention back to the horizon.

‘He has children.’

Gandalf’s sudden announcement startled her, which was a feat in itself. Her surprise turned to worry, but she avoided feeling pity, as she could already tell the bowman was not one with time for pity.

‘They are in Erebor, surely?’

The wizard seemed to grow older, an odd habit that Mirasma oft compared to her wing-shuffling. Younglings believed that there was no similarity between the two – what does shuffling have to do with ageing? – yet she and Gandalf were both far from young.

‘I fear not. The two youngest, indeed, but the eldest remained to tend the wounded. She is young, even for a mortal.’

‘What of the mother?’

The lines around the wizard’s mouth deepened. ‘Died in childbirth.’

Mirasma sighed softly, almost sounding defeated.

‘It will be difficult. It was for me.’

‘But he will have your help,’ Gandalf said, giving her a _look_ from the corner of his eye. The mortals were rather fond of saying that a picture was worth a thousand words, but Mirasma had decided long ago that the wizard’s _looks_ were worth a million.

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

A sudden thought came to her, and she turned her icy gaze upon Gandalf. ‘Yet he will not be ready for what you have in mind.’

‘There is no harm in hoping.’

‘There is in waiting – Gandalf, Sauron’s army is nearly ready. We have three months, at most, and they may send scouts ahead. You saw the ruin brought by one dragon, imagine what three could do. Then in a few moons, six hundred!’

Her anger had caused her voice to harden and sharpen, like a knife being whetted, and its usual ring became a growl. She closed her eyes and meticulously controlled the blazing pool of fury that was constantly inside her, all that remained of the dormant dragon-spirit. Pain, true, physical pain, scorched through her veins as she reigned in her anger. A shiver ran beneath her scales as she returned to reality.

‘I am sorry, my friend,’ Gandalf murmured, his regretful gaze angering her – not at him, but at herself. Control over herself was the last thing left to her, and without even that what was she worth? Would she ever be able to walk among mortals again, without having to clash with the dragon each time?

With a violent tug she wrenched aside her train of thought.

It would never be said that Mirasma Iceyes was a daydreamer.

 

♛      ♛      ♛  

 

Smooth beneath his rough skin, the pitch-black labradorite glinted as Thorin Oakenshield ran it beneath his fingers. Indescribably silky, the only flaw in the oval stone was the inscribed Khuzdûl; softly Thorin traced over the spiky runes with his thumb.

_I_ _nikh dê_ , they read. _Return to me_.

Well could he remember the day when his sister Dís had bestowed the talisman upon her youngest son. With crushing strength she had clenched his hand around the stone, ignoring Kíli’s half-hearted complaints as her brown gaze arrowed into his own. Thorin recalled the slight anger souring his tongue as he had seen Fíli, ever the second-favourite child, watch where he leaned in the shadows. The dwarrow king had always hated her blatant favouritism, especially as it reminded him of his own younger brother’s treatment. Thráin had realised his awful treatment of Frerin only after he perished in the Battle of Azanulbizar.

Thorin wondered if Dís would treasure her firstborn now that her favourite had fallen.

The snake of iron which seemed to have grown inside him shifted and stirred, tightening his lungs; Thorin clenched his fingers around the talisman until his knuckles turned white, causing each faded scar to shine and stretch. The sight reminded him of his brief spell as a mere blacksmith in the towns of Men, a time which had once been a black mark on his history in his mind; yet centuries later, Kíli, with a mere few words, had caused him to regard it as a time in which he had done all he could to save his people. In fact, there were many occasions in which Thorin’s younger sister-son had lightened his opinion on certain events.

The king missed his words, missed them more than he would ever admit to anyone, and he missed the young dwarf’s smile even more.

A breeze pulled him from his thoughts as it ran gentle fingers through his hair, sending another pang through his heart; it felt almost like Kíli’s touch, warm and soft.

With an inaudible sigh Thorin looked away from the stone. The murmuring whispers about him sharpened to recognisable syllables as he returned his mind to the present, glancing around himself. The clearing’s muddy surface was lightly dusted with a coating of snow and ringed with huge, jagged boulders. It was undoubtedly a large area, but still nowhere near big enough to accommodate both the extended Council _and_ the white dragon. The creature was perched outside the ring of rocks in a larger clearing, its snowy neck snaking between a gap in the rough stones, its massive head twisted sideways in a position just as clearly uncomfortable as it had been last night. The rest of the Council, plus a few extra, was scattered around the edges of the clearing. Thorin swiftly glanced at Bilbo; the hobbit was together with Bard on the opposite end of the clearing, talking softly. As if sensing his attention, Bilbo caught Thorin’s gaze and gave him a soft smile.

‘You all know the threat that approaches.’

Thorin stifled a stab of disappointment as the hobbit’s gaze shifted to Gandalf at his words.

‘We are here to choose envoys to the Vallhyrin, a tribe of dragons in the far North. We need their assistance to defeat the armies of darkness.’

Thorin did not miss the dragon’s eye roll at the wizard’s dramatizations, and could not help thinking that she and Bilbo would get along well. After yesterday’s events – meaning, Thorin reopening his wound and bleeding through his bandages – he had received quite an incensed scolding from the hobbit, before being quickly exonerated. Thorin still wondered why the hobbit had forgiven him so swiftly.

‘They will require tact and subtlety,’ Gandalf continued, casting a meaningful glance at the dwarves as if daring them to object. ‘Our need for allies is desperate, and a tribe of dragons would greatly improve our chances. The envoys must be loyal without a doubt, and hardy: Mirasma can only fly them so far, and they would have to cross the Northern Wastes alone.’

‘Two people cannot have all those qualities,’ Dain scoffed, his elaborately braided grey beard quivering with disbelief.

‘Yes, well,’ the wizard said delicately, ‘we shall merely have to do our best.’

He shot an eloquent look at the dragon, who huffed slightly. Thorin was not entirely sure what the subject of it was, but even _he_ could tell that they were in some sort of disagreement.

‘Obviously we must send an elf,’ Thranduil said superciliously.

‘ _Obviously?’_ Thorin snorted. He heard irritated mutters from the group of dwarves behind him, and knew that their indignation reflected his own. Who did this arrogant _beldarakin_ think he was?

‘I will go.’

The dwarf’s attention jumped to the speaker. It was the fiery-haired elf that had carried his youngest nephew’s body into the burial halls.

‘Then I will go as well.’

It was the blonde princeling, Thranduil’s son.

‘Legolas–’ his father began.

‘We are not having two _elves!’_  Dain growled.

‘Oh, hush,’ Bilbo snapped as the dragon gave the dwarf a glare.

‘This is an envoy,’ said Bard, his point maddeningly practical as ever. ‘We must be represented by more than one race.’

Gandalf broke in swiftly before a fully-fledged argument could erupt.

‘Indeed. Perhaps a man and an elf?’

His gaze travelled to Bard, and the tall man’s brow furrowed as he considered. Thorin noticed that he seemed slightly more careworn than usual – not surprising, considering the dragon-curse. Recalling his own time entrapped within goldlust, the dwarf’s mood darkened; he could not even imagine physically becoming a dragon as well as mentally. Rarely did Thorin feel for other’s issues, but in Bard’s case he was willing to make an exception.

‘I have many hardy men,’ the Man replied finally, ‘but none I trust enough for this task.’

‘What about me?’ Bilbo asked. ‘I could go.’

‘If he goes, I go too,’ Thorin said instantly, his tone inviting no argument. He steadfastly ignored the ten dwarves behind him as they snickered and elbowed each other. He would allow them to believe whatever they desired; for his part, he was merely protecting an important companion.

‘Two elves, a hobbit and a dwarf,’ Gandalf mused. ‘Mm...It might just work.’

‘No, it will not!’ snapped the dragon.

‘I have complete faith in the both of you.’

‘ _Faith_ does not float ships, Gandalf!’

‘Would the both of you kindly stop bickering and _tell us what is going on_?’

All eyes turned to Bilbo, who was standing with his hands on his hips, glaring at the two ancient magical beings like they were naughty dwarflings. The dragon made a sound deep in her throat, which was a little too reminiscent of Smaug for Thorin’s comfort. His hand was reaching for Orcrist when he realised that she was laughing.

‘Oh, I like this one,’ she snickered.

‘Hmm, yes, the two of you share many qualities,’ Gandalf mused. ‘In answer to your question, Bilbo, I merely had an idea which Mirasma is…opposed to.’

‘Because it is _idiotic,’_ the dragon muttered sullenly, oddly reminding Thorin of a rebellious twenty-year-old Kíli. Smoothing his fingers over the runestone, the dwarf allowed himself a small smile; many times had his youngest sister-son been caught with his arms full of Bombur’s treacle pies, and many times had he been scolded for such escapades.

‘What is this idea, pray tell?’

Bilbo’s hands were still on his hips and not even Gandalf was fool enough to aggravate him.

‘I merely suggested that Bard come along on the journey, and transport two himself.’

Thorin’s eyes flicked to Bard. The lines around the bowman’s mouth had deepened ever so slightly, as had the ever-present furrow between his brows, but he looked exponentially calmer than Thorin would in his place.

‘I have told you once, I have told you a hundred times, _he will not be ready,’_ the white dragon pressed. Thorin guessed that she would have more expertise than most on that subject.

Gandalf, meanwhile, merely smiled to himself.

‘Prepare for four,’ Dain growled in his near-illegible accent, ‘then if the man is not ready in time, send two.’

Thorin’s brows rose. ‘That is a surprisingly good idea, cousin.’

Dain threw him a fierce scowl.

‘Send two,’ came Thranduil’s smooth tones. ‘We should not gamble our fate on a bargeman-turned-dragon.’

His eyes were fixed on his son, so he missed how Bard gave him a stony glare. _There seems to be a fair amount of glaring going on today,_ Thorin mused.

‘For goodness’ sake, all of you need to stop being so immature,’ Bilbo snapped. ‘This meeting will never get anywhere if you continue to act like sulking faunts!’

The Council formed of the biggest powers in Middle Earth stared at the small hobbit. The small hobbit glared back.

After a minute of silence, Thorin cleared his throat.

‘I hate to admit it, but Dain’s idea is sound,’ he said. ‘We must prepare for the journey whatever we decide, which gives Bard time to adjust.’

He nodded courteously to Bard. Bilbo gave him an approving look.

‘Aye,’ said Dain, though he threw his cousin a bit of a glare; Thorin merely smirked, amused.

‘Then prepare for four,’ Thranduil stated, while his blonde son watched him with narrowed eyes.

_Perhaps the princeling is not as stupid as he appears_ , the dwarf thought. Gandalf nodded slowly, as if he could hear Thorin’s mind; for all the king knew, he could.

‘It is settled then,’ said the wizard.

The four envoys exchanged glances, highly aware that of the fact that, if all went well, they were about to be spending a whole lot of time together.

 

♛      ♛      ♛

 

Darting past the small camp, skirting around the Lonely Mountain, skipping over Ered Mithrim, a soft breeze paused near the emerald foothills of the mountains. Twisting briefly beneath the overcast sky, the wind dashed off once more to sweep over the seemingly infinite desert, racing the shadow of a cloud as it crept across the sunswept sand. In the distance a misty blue line heralded a second mountain range, seeming from a distance like a dragon’s spikes; and the largest was Tephra, the ancestral home of the Vallhyrin. To the great spine of Ered Imwyn the zephyr soared, slipping between the immense goldwrought gates and into an intricate warren of tunnels. Undeterred, the wind swept along one crimson path; within seconds the massive throne room spread before it.

It came to rest above the incomparably immense firepit sunken into the floor.

‘Father,’ came a clear voice from the end of the room. Twisting, the breeze espied a slender woman with dark skin striding down the paving stones, golden eyes fixed on an armoured man who stood beside the firepit.

‘Eyja,’ he acknowledged. ‘What brings you here?’

‘The birds have brought news of a great disturbance to the South; an army of twisted dragons gathered within Mordor. It appears that the Great Eye intends to take Arda for his own, in a single great massacre.’

The man gave a single nod of acknowledgement. It was a clear dismissal, but still the woman remained, her golden eyes narrowing fractionally as she spoke.

‘The white dragon has resurfaced once more.’

A visual tense slammed through his body, tightening his shoulders and causing the raised scar sullying his features to stretch. His wide fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword.

‘Where?’

‘She– _it_ has joined the Southerners. It seems that it was captured by the Eye, as one of its army, but escaped; now it assists them against the Shadow.’

The man snarled. His golden eyes glowed like the fire pit before him, face twisting with a millennia-old bitterness.

‘They should have _killed_ it when they had the chance.’

‘We will not have to worry about that,’ said his daughter, an odd tone to her voice. ‘Three of the twisted dragons wing their way towards it as we speak.’

Curling into itself, readying for speed, the breeze just caught the man’s last word.

‘Good,’ he said savagely, claw-shaped scar flexing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzul Translations  
> beldarakin: treacherous being/s
> 
> Eyja is pronounced eyyah, rhyming with 'heya.'
> 
> Yes, I made Dis mean, because I am tired of perfect Dises and felt that it would sort of work. Poor Fili.
> 
> I would greatly appreciate a comment: they are actually so motivating, and of course if you have anything you want to see - ships, plot points, more of certain characters - that would help as well, and I would do my best to include any suggestions. Also a beta would be SUPER helpful, so please comment if you're interested :)


	5. Update

Hi.

 

Just thought that I would tell you: I will be putting this fic on temporary hiatus until I have sorted my shit out and maybe found a beta. I'm really sorry for all my inconsistencies, and would like to thank you for reading this far :)


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